Never tickle a sleeping Harry Potter
by ElMarquis
Summary: When Nathanial Potter was crowned the 'Boy-Who-Lived', who cares for his elder brother, Hadrian James Potter, after all, he is but one of the most intelligent wizards of the modern age. Or as modern as a backwards semi-Medieval society can get. Alas, he cares not for Britain, but makes his home 'cross the pond.


"Where's my fucking revolver! They're going to fucking die in a mother-fucking hole!" screamed an irate seven-year-old, ignoring the serene looking man, who had some wrinkles around twinkling brown eyes, an amused grin twitching the short German goatee adorning his chin.

The boy, tall, powerfully built for his age with a head of unruly raven-hair was destroying almost everything around him. Randomly, lightning bolts and fireballs burst from the glowing, eerie green aura which flared around the boy. They lanced out and shattered objects, singed and incinerated others, causing significant damage to all but the man sat comfortably behind a powerful shield.

After fifteen minutes of constant ranting, ten of them devolving into Arabic insults and descriptions of various gory and tortuous deaths in the ancient tongue of serpents, Parseltongue, the kid finally screamed with rage and fell unconscious from magical exhaustion.

The two occupants of the luxurious Las Vegas penthouse, which looked out onto the glowing lights of the Strip, were Hadrian Potter, seven years old, also known as James Patheroy, and his mentor and guardian, Alastair Patheroy. It turned out that memories were enough to startle a powerful child into accidental magic, and that accidental magic was significantly more powerful than the elder man had ever seen.

A bit of background. Born July 31st 1987, followed two years later by his younger brother Nathaniel Potter, Hadrian 'Harry' Potter. Aged three and a half, the serpentine visage of Voldemort had walked into their Fidelius-charmed cottage at Godric's Hollow, immediately stunning both of the elder Potters.

Upon entering the nursery in which Nathan was smacking two wooden bricks together and Harry looking disgustedly at the second Narnia book for its lack of gore, bloodshed and general violence which apparently C.S Lewis had found gratuitous, Voldemort had immediately trained his wand on the elder. It was natural to go from eldest to youngest, until he was blasted apart by a rebounding curse.

The combination of the first storm mage in a millennium and a great deal of intelligence mustering some significant hatred for the snake-faced wizard had blasted back the killing curse at him, leaving nought but a lightning-bolt scar which his storm mage powers immediately tried to absorb the chaotic magic in it, killing the semi-sentient soul fragment in it in the process, leaving a screaming wraith flying through the destroyed back wall of the cottage. Voldemort's body was vaporised, leaving his wand and robes on the floor as a grey shade swooped from the room through a window and into the night.

Unfortunately, his parents decided that because Nathan had a V-shaped cut on his hand from one of his wooden blocks which had exploded from a fragment of Harry's lightning-throwing aura meant that Nathan had vanquished the Dark Lord. Despite his honorary grandfather Albus' best efforts, James and Lily ceased so much as talking to him, barely feeding him. They tried (and failed) to get Remus Lupin to abandon the elder son, meanwhile leaving Sirius Black in Azkaban for two months before remembering his plight.

Thus, the Occlumency which was forcing Harry to relive his every memory had just brought up when James Potter left him at an orphanage, stating that he could no longer afford to have his son, the heir to one of the richest of the Ancient and Noble Houses. It was a miracle that he forgot to disown Harry.

James Potter also shouldn't have left the Potter Lord's ring lying around after the sentient magic in it rejected him as Lord Potter.

It had happened mainly as Harry never displayed accidental magic because of his exceptional control over said magic, causing them to assume he was a squib while at the same time spoiling his younger brother. Thus when he was moved from that orphanage to another for his _unsociable_ tendencies, namely swearing often, refusing to adhere to curfew, reading books way beyond any near-four-year-old until his adoption by Alistair Patheroy.

He was still much like that. Swore often and loud. Refused to adhere to many rules, particularly ones concerning his repeated attempts to build explosive devices. Reading books most astrophysicists would have to spend a few weeks on in a couple of hours. His mother had a sharp temper, James was one to hold a grudge for a long time, simmering. Harry was unfailingly possessed of a dour wit, acerbic of tongue, Machiavellian, sardonic. Simultaneously. Often when he was particularly cranky, he would lash out at people with incredible levels of sarcasm and snideness or occasionally, a lightning bolt.

So when he awoke with the first drop of ice-cold water, Al really should have been expecting the rest wandlessly banished straight at him, every drop electrified by the follow-up lightning bolt.

"Fuck off!" Harry swore at the grinning old man who had raised a shield powerful enough to atomize the water droplets. Had the lightning bolt been directed _at_ him, not through a medium, he would be medium barbecued. Needless to say, Alistair was still cautious around the young man who had submerged Las Vegas in monsoon-level rain and thunder storms for two days running.

"Come on little Harry, you've been asleep too long." teased the elder man.

"No shit Sherlock." was the reply from the bed; "Magical exhaustion, how long was I out?"

"I gave you an hour and a half." replied Al.

Harry slid out of bed, remembered that he hadn't worn glasses for over a year, swore briefly and settled into a meditative trance, once more going over memories. It couldn't be that hard, he only had another three and a half years of memories to review. At most.

After spending a year hopping from orphanage to orphanage, finally across the coast to America, Harry had caught the eye of the-then Head Auror of the Los Angeles Auror Division, a former member of the American magical army, the Mages. Thus, he found himself living in the care of Alistair Patheroy, or technically in the apartment next door, he was far too independent to live _with_ someone.

He'd skipped all previous schooling and gone straight to high school... for a week before he left in disgust and took up home education, mostly self-taught and sometimes through the medium of the internet. It also allowed him more time to spend shooting his Ruger Single Six .22LR revolver and building a dune buggy.

They were two of his favourite hobbies, apart from building explosives, shooting things and building fast-moving vehicles.


End file.
